I was 12 when my father first touched me inappropriately. It took me reading about Lolita, more than a decade later, inciting and luring her stepfather into intimacy to realise that my first experience of any form of sexual pleasure came from my own father.
If you haven’t tried it yet, you should plan a chat with yourself ASAP. It’s only borderline personality disorder if you’re talking to someone that isn’t present and isn’t you. I’ve checked, just to make sure.
It was November 2008 and we’d just moved into our new apartment in Colaba, overlooking the magnificent Taj dome. When we heard the first explosion, we expected it to be a noise made by a Diwali rocket. But 26/11, the night of horrors, had just begun. The next 36 hours were full of panic, with my mum narrowly escaping a bullet shot made by a terrorist.
My partner had introduced me to AR Rahman’s music. Love and Rahman’s music were inseparable to my mind. But then our relationship turned abusive and each time I heard Rahman’s voice I recoiled.
On April 28, 2001, my mother stepped out of our house with a small wallet to buy brown paper for our books. We were in the middle of our annual ritual of covering our brand new textbooks. This memory would have held no significance had my mother returned. She did not.
I was constantly being told that I needed to lose weight to look good, to find a boyfriend, to be accepted. But staying fat was probably my body’s rebellion against the society that so desperately wanted to change me. My body is a vault that stores all my secrets, all my traumas.
I was 17 when psoriasis, a chronic skin condition that causes itchy patches, arrived unannounced, putting me in a permanent state of discomfort. Perfect strangers would ask me what I had on my elbows, leaving me mortified. I refused to take a seat on public transport because I didn’t want people to avoid sitting next to me, or worse get up if my skin showed.
From the devastating images of the coronavirus crisis emerging from across India to the rise in intolerance, I struggle to cope with how the world is breaking – physically and in spirit. Sometimes I feel too much for matters that are beyond my control. And this debilitating inclination to push empathy on overdrive isn’t easy to live with.
My acne-scarred face is the most enduring memory people have of me. When relatives come over, my brother gets the usual greeting of, “My, how you’ve grown!” I get “Why don’t you go to my friend’s dermatologist?” After years, I found a miracle drug. Was I willing to risk my health for it?